


The Intricate Dance of the Butterfly Observed Over Time

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Illness, Johnlock Roulette, London, M/M, Marriage, Retirementlock, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:10:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3975877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Sherlock and John.  Fragments of a life.  From the start, but not quite all the way to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Intricate Dance of the Butterfly Observed Over Time

**Author's Note:**

> Let me confess that this began as a little vignette for Valentine's Day. That vignette is now part 10 of this. It just grabbed me and I hope it grabs you in the same way. Although it is longish, I decided to post it all at once because it just seemed appropriate. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> And thanks for reading!

At first, the butterflies appear random  
in their fluttering around each other, and  
then, suddenly synchronised, they circle  
and spin, forming knot patterns in the air.  
As if magnetised or tied together by  
invisible threads, the butterflies dance.

-Paul Evans

 

-i-

OUVETURE  
[An opening or prelude.]

 

09:45

No words were really necessary.

John was sometimes put in mind of a well-run operating theatre. Everyone involved understood their particular role and the movements were effortlessly coordinated, graceful, like much-practised choreography. He never said any of that aloud, of course. Sherlock was not fond of his occasional flights of fantasy, even when they appeared on the blog. If he started spouting such things around the flat, Sherlock’s reaction would be scathing.

So: Saturday morning.

John was in the shower first. Then a quick shave, followed by a vigourous teeth cleaning, and finally a spritz of Boots deodorant. His toiletries shelf was much less crowded than Sherlock’s. Well, that made perfect sense if you looked at the two of them, didn’t it?

He grabbed his old bathrobe from the back of the door and donned it. Leaving the bathroom, he passed Sherlock on the way in, not quite touching, but definitely exchanging a certain sense of warmth between their bodies. It was the sort of moment that John always tucked away for further consideration at some other [more convenient] time. Thus far, sadly, that time had not yet arrived.

John dressed quickly in his usual Saturday clothes, a faded, slightly snug rugby club tee and comfortable denims. Once his socks and trainers were on, he efficiently stripped the bed of its linen, adding it to the basket that held his week’s laundry. Some military habits stuck, it seemed.

The shower was still running, so he went into the other bedroom to strip Sherlock’s bed as well. There was not, as there only rarely was, any other laundry waiting. Sherlock generally preferred to send his things out to be professionally cleaned. A waste of good money, in John’s opinion, but the other man always looked well put together and so maybe he had a point. John was just rather glad not to be tasked with washing silk.

John carried the laundry basket out of the room, passing Sherlock again. He was now wearing his blue dressing gown and had still-damp curls hanging limply on his forehead. John smiled at him for no particular reason, save that it was Saturday and the familiar routine was a pleasant pause in the maelstrom of their life. Sherlock just quirked a brow at him.

Mrs. Hudson was on her way out, a small overnight bag in her hand, as John reached the ground floor washing machine. “Off someplace nice?” he said, shoving too much laundry into the machine. At her frown, he pulled some out. It was an old battle.

“Only to visit my sister,” she said then. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, have fun,” he said cheerfully.

She looked somewhat skeptical about the likelihood of that, but only said, “Don’t let Sherlock blow the flat up while I’m away.” With that, she was gone.

As he walked back into the flat, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom. John had never, of course, even hinted at the fact that the aubergine shirt was his favorite. Sherlock probably knew anyway, but he exercised uncharacteristic restraint [or an unexpected act of kindness?] and did not say so.

“Ready?” Sherlock said, speaking for the first time of the morning.

John nodded and took the jacket Sherlock was holding out to him.

Sherlock pulled on his own coat, draped but did not loop the scarf, and led the way down the stairs.

The little café---John never even remembered its name, just thinking of it as ‘the Saturday place’---was only a ten minute walk from the flat. Their usual corner table was waiting for them. John picked up a newspaper from the rack and went to sit, while Sherlock moved to the counter. 

Any cooking done in 221B was generally down to John, although Sherlock did make lovely toasted cheese sandwiches when he was so inclined. To somewhat balance the scale, providing Saturday breakfast was Sherlock’s contribution. Which did not mean cooking, but instead consisted of ordering the meal and paying for it.

He was soon at the table as well, bringing with him two cups of tea.

John grunted his heartfelt thanks and continued to read the football news. Sherlock took the society page, because he always maintained that one could learn more about crime from reading that rather than the front page. Given his record in bringing down criminals, John could scarcely argue with the method.

Still reading, Sherlock also began to talk about an experiment he hoped to conduct soon. Something to do with the coagulation of blood in poisoning victims. John mostly listened, while reading about the upcoming Tottenham-Chelsea match. He thought vaguely of expressing a desire not to see jars of coagulating blood all over his kitchen, but then decided not to waste his energy. It was Saturday, after all.

The food soon appeared. They each took a plate of eggs [scrambled for Sherlock, fried for John] and bacon. Sherlock divided the massive waffle into two perfect halves and deposited one onto John’s plate. After dousing his own half in far too much maple syrup, he passed the pitcher to John, who tipped it over his own plate more sparingly.

They ate mostly in silence.

Saturday.

*

20:00

Sometimes, the criminal class worked at the weekend. Which fact explained why that evening John was not at home quibbling with Sherlock over what DVD to watch or whether to order in Chinese or Indian for dinner.

Instead, having left Lestrade and Donovan behind as usual, they were chasing a suspected killer through a dark alleyway near Tower Hill. Sherlock, of course, had the longer legs, but in this instance John was somewhat more motivated, because he was very pissed off. In part, because the guy they were chasing was a vicious arsehole, but mostly because before the chase started, he had swung a cricket bat right at Sherlock’s head. Disaster had been averted only because John had just managed to shove his flatmate out of the way of the bat. In consequence of that, he was mad and running harder, focused only on his prey. 

Which was why, when he finally tackled the guy, he did not even notice the knife until it sliced across his torso.

It took a moment for the pain to kick in, so John had time to ram the man’s head into the brick wall, rendering him unconscious immediately.

Then John collapsed just a bit.

“John? John?” Sherlock was kneeling him, tugging at his clothes, trying to see where the blood was coming from. “Are you alright? John, are you alright?”

There was an edge of desperation in Sherlock’s voice that reminded John of the pool and an explosive vest.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “I’m fine. Well, probably need some stitches.”

Sherlock kept one hand on John’s chest, while the other grabbed his phone and punched in a number. “Lestrade, send an ambulance to the alley behind the Tesco. Hurry. John is hurt,” he added, his voice going slightly raspy.

Then he dropped the phone back into his pocket and just held onto John.

*  
00:15

John was in a pleasant half-sleeping state, stretched out on the sofa, because his bed had seemed too far away. Sherlock, as always, was a slightly brusque caretaker, but John’s bloody shirt was gone, replaced by an even softer, rather stretched-out tee and he now wore his plaid flannels instead of the filthy jeans. There was a quilt tucked around him, a pillow behind his head, and a decent cup of tea at hand. 

And now Sherlock was standing at the window, playing a soft tune that sounded vaguely familiar to John. He finished the tea and then closed his eyes, letting the lovely notes carry him into sleep.

#  
-ii-

CAVATINA  
[A short and simple melody,  
performed by a soloist, that  
is part of a larger piece.]

Sherlock

 

He knew the definition, of course, even if he refused to apply it to his own circumstances.

_Ritual: A set of fixed actions and sometimes words performed regularly, especially as part of a ceremony._

It was not a ritual, Sherlock sincerely believed; it was simply his life now.

Unlock the door.

Enter the room.

Shut the door and lock it.

Take two steps into the room, which because it is small, puts him in the middle of the space, and stop. Survey the surroundings. Carefully.

[Make a note: This is the 200th hotel room in which he has stayed over the past eighteen months. A milestone, of sorts. Like the commemoration of some momentous disaster. Which was a good way to describe this whole thing.]

The room: Striped blue and yellow wallpaper. A single bed pushed into the corner. An almost clean coverlet on the bed. A maple desk and chair against the wall. One window. And a small en suite.

Sherlock deposited his knapsack on the bed, opened it, and removed the I-pad, which he set on the otherwise bare desk.

Then he quickly and efficiently checked the room for bugs [of the electronic type; the other kind was rather a given] and cameras. Which was idiotic, of course, because how could anyone have wired a room that he didn’t even know that he was going to be staying in until twenty minutes ago?

But he always checked.

Because, if he were going to die on this apparently endless mission, it was not going to be because he’d been careless. John would be pissed if that happened. Once he got over being pissed about everything else. If he ever did.

When he had satisfactorily proven what he’d already known to be true, Sherlock went to take a quick [lukewarm] shower, then donned a clean pair of pants and his second-best dressing gown. [Second-best because for some reason Mycroft had been convinced that John would notice if the first-best went missing. Sherlock was not convinced of that.] It, along with just a few other familiar items, had been in the knapsack when Mycroft handed it to him as he boarded an aeroplane for Hanoi all those months ago.

Finally, Sherlock stood at the window and looked out over the lights of Vienna. At least, being in Europe made him feel a little closer to home [John]. Below him was the café in which, the desk clerk had informed him cheerily, students from the University of Music would be playing this very evening. If Herr Symthe would be interested.

After a few minutes, Sherlock sat down at the desk and opened the Smart Cover of his I-pad. Immediately, he started typing an email.

_Dear John,_

_Sorry that I have not written in a couple of days. I have been travelling again and could not get a good connection. Finally, I am back in civilization. Today is one of those days when I wished so much that you were with me. [Not that I don’t wish that every day.] But you would have loved it. There was a footrace through the Naschmarkt, where I kicked over a bucket of flowers and toppled a fruit stand. Cherries and apples went everywhere while the seller yelled vile things at me in at least three different languages. You would have laughed. Which, irrationally, makes me want to cry, if I did that sort of thing. The man I was chasing escaped in the confusion, but I found him later in Stadtpark, near the gilt statue of Johann Strauss. One more problem resolved._

_Oh, I have given you far too much data about my present location, haven’t I? Mycroft will be cross. Whatever you do, John, do not dash to Gatwick and catch the next flight to Vienna and come to join me at this little hotel not far from the Riesenrad._

_Please, John, dash to Gatwick and catch that flight. I will start practicing the things I want to say and thinking of the things I want to do when you get here._

_Things I should have said and done a long time ago._

It was then that the music began in the café below. Sherlock went to open the window so that he could better hear the sounds. The music was for the tourists, of course, so waltzes featured strongly.

As he leant against the window and listened, Sherlock let his thoughts drift. He wandered through the corridors of his Palace until the meandering took him to the usual destination: the warm and cozy room that reminded him of 221B. It was here that he kept everything to do with John Hamish Watson.

Once inside, he went straight to the massive chest that always reminded him vaguely of deserts and exotic spices and tea. His fingers went unerringly to the file entitled Teaching John To Waltz.

*

The evening had not started off as a dance lesson. Sherlock was simply standing at the window, playing, for reasons he wasn’t clear on, some Strauss.

“That’s nice,” John said from his chair, where he was reading a fat and undoubtedly dreadful paperback.

“It’s a waltz.”

“I know. My parents used to dance. Before it all fell to shite.”

Sherlock was never quite sure why he started moving around the room as he played. “I always favoured the classic style,” he said, not missing a beat.

“Why am I not surprised that you’re bloody good at that,” John said with a grin. “I could never master it, though my mother tried. Surprisingly, Harry took right to it.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said crisply. “You have excellent body awareness. All you lacked was a proper teacher.”

John shrugged. “No reason to learn.”

Sherlock sneered at him. “You don’t dance because there is a reason to. You dance because you can.” He set the violin in its case and called up the music program on his laptop. What emerged was one of his own compositions called, although no one knew it but he himself, My Blogger. He raised his arms and stared at John expectantly.

After a moment, looking slightly sheepish, John stood and stepped into Sherlock’s arms for the first [and probably the last] time.

*

Abruptly, Sherlock was back in the hotel room. He closed the window with a bang and pulled the curtains together to better muffle the sound from below. Then he went back to the desk and the unfinished letter.

_You will want to know that I ate today, a rather hearty meal of schnitzel and potatoes, so do not worry._

_Remember the night I taught you to waltz?_

_As always,  
SH_

He read the letter quickly, committing every word to memory.

Then he deleted it.

A moment later, he curled up in the bed and tried not to hear the music from below.

 

John

Structure was important.

It was the little things that gave life structure. Routine mattered. Insignificant rituals that one could count on. And, over time, they became significant.

So: Tuesday night.

He was sitting alone in 221B, as usual. Tonight the solitude would not have been necessary, John admitted that.

Early that afternoon, the new receptionist at the surgery, Mary Something, had suggested that they might have dinner together. A drink or two, perhaps? The rather coy expression on her face clearly conveyed the message that more than dinner and drinks was definitely on offer.

He could have said yes.

Harry repeatedly sniped at him that he needed to get laid.

And he had considered it, actually. But then he had remembered.

“Sorry, Mary,” he said without thinking. “But Tuesday night is when I polish the violin.”

The look she gave him then was clearly one of ‘Okay, this man is as crazy as everyone says he is.’

So instead of bedding an attractive and more than willing woman, he was sitting here alone, drinking the single glass of whiskey he allowed himself on Tuesday nights. There was only one lamp on, casting a soft glow over the room, as the hushed sound of violin music came from John’s laptop.

John picked up the soft cloth and used it to carefully wipe the strings of the violin in his lap. He had just four examples of Sherlock playing and he listened to them only once a week. He turned the cloth and ran it over the face of the instrument. From his research, he knew not to use the actual polish more than once a year or so. But he could do this. Using a cotton stick, he wiped under the bridge. He paused and took another sip.

The waltz that Sherlock had written began to play. Idly, John wished that he had thought to ask what it was called, because it was really quite lovely. As he listened, he remembered when Sherlock taught him to waltz. He could almost hear the other man’s voice, feel the other man’s arms around him.

_“Visualise the box, John.”_  
“Count in threes.”  
“Feet together, then step forward with the left foot.”  
“Very good, John.”  
The music stopped, but they stood as they were for another few moments, almost as if neither of them wanted the embrace to end. 

 

John sighed and turned his attention to the bow next. It was absurd, really. No one played the thing and as long as John had his say, no one ever would, so it did not need polishing every week. But that wasn’t the point, was it?

The point was that Tuesday nights brought Sherlock back to him.

Well, really, the point was about this being the only way he had to let the universe know that he loved Sherlock Holmes, but had never told him that, and then he had lost him.

So on Tuesday nights, he drank one whiskey and polished the violin.

#

 

-iii-

COUNTERPOINT  
[Two melodic lines played  
at the same time.]

 

There was an unaccustomed hesitation that bothered John for reasons that he didn’t really understand. Except: Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was not hesitant. Never tentative.

So to look up from the newspaper and his morning tea to see his flatmate standing in the doorway, still in his dressing gown, looking distinctly…hesitant was disconcerting. “What?” John said finally. Then, before Sherlock could respond, he stood. “You want tea?” And still without waiting for Sherlock to speak, John made another cup of tea, this one the way Sherlock liked it, and brought it to the table.

After a moment, Sherlock came and sat. They drank tea in silence.

It had been three months. Twelve weeks since John had opened the door one rainy cold night to find the shivering and battered ghost of a man he used to know standing there. John almost passed out, like some frail Victorian maiden. Then he almost punched the bastard. Finally, he just took Sherlock’s hand and led him up the stairs. Led him home.

Three months was not a long time and so they were still finding their way back to normal. Well, what passed for normal in their own peculiar universe. It had taken several weeks for Mycroft to resurrect his brother in the public eye. Several more before Lestrade began bringing him a few insignificant cases for consideration. 

It was a slow progression.

But, last night, for the first time in so long, Sherlock stood in front of the window and played his violin for John.

So, really, nothing else mattered.

“There is a case,” Sherlock said finally. He almost managed to sound bored, but John knew his Holmes, so he heard the edge of excitement in the words. “Okay,” he said, waiting.

“Someone is killing twins.”

“Both of them?”

Now the excitement was let loose and the silvery green eyes began to glow. “No, John. Just one of each pair. Someone in Edinburgh is killing one twin. Always the second born. Four so far.”

“How sad,” John murmured, folding the newspaper.

There was a pause.

“Yes,” Sherlock said solemnly. “Very sad.”

John hid his smirk behind the cup as he swallowed the dregs of his tea..

“Will you come?”

John had worked several of the boring cases with him since the return. Not all of them, because he still occasionally did a shift at the surgery and also because a part of him was not ready to turn his life over to Sherlock completely again.

Even though he knew full well that putting up such resistance was a losing battle.

“I’ll come,” he said.

Sherlock smiled just a little.

One more step towards normality.

As he quickly washed the teacups, John refused to ask himself if their old normal was really what he wanted anymore.

*

It was brilliant.

Finally, a case that was truly worthy of Sherlock Holmes. There were twins, more in one city than might have been expected---maybe the Scots specialised in multiple births, although John could not remember anything about that from med school--- and there was an oh-so-clever killer. Clues no one else could see and a lengthy chase up the Royal Mile, all the way to the castle, scattering tourists and irritating the local authorities. Those same authorities had to shut up when Sherlock handed them a terribly warped former fertility doctor.

And so John Watson found himself standing high above the city, breathless and almost laughing, saying, “Brilliant, Sherlock. Absolutely fucking amazing.”

Sherlock’s cheekbones reddened, although maybe that was the chilly wind. He bit his lower lip and ducked his head.

John Watson gave up the battle.

He had no idea what his complete and total surrender meant, but clearly understood that the fight was over. When he thought to pay attention again, John realised that Sherlock was staring at him.

*

It was either very late or very early.

Hard to tell from the pale light leaking in through the badly drawn curtains of the hotel room. At least it was hard to tell if you were only plain old John Watson and not a consulting genius. Sherlock had insisted that the sofa bed in the other room would suit him and, having been perhaps a little too liberal in his consumption of the locally distilled whisky, John was not inclined to argue. He’d barely had the energy to strip to his pants and tee before dropping like a stone into the massively over-sized and ridiculously plush bed.

As he lay still mostly asleep in the early or late greyness, John decided that between watching Sherlock being brilliant again and the fine Glenkinchie, he quite liked Edinburgh. At the moment, he even rather liked his life. Things were not completely perfect, but John Watson had never felt entitled to perfect and would have been more than surprised to achieve it. And, truthfully, he did not feel as if it were a matter of settling. 

Settling would have been moving on to something else, thinking that he could ever find happiness living in the suburbs with a generic wife and possibly children, driving a boring car to a boring job and then driving home again to play Happy Family. That would have been slow death for him and he was at least smart enough to realise it.

Finally, he rolled over to look at the bedside clock.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

There was someone sitting on the other side of the bed. 

Well, not ‘someone’ as in a stranger who had broken into the hotel room and settled next to a sleeping Watson. More ‘someone’ as in a pyjama-clad consulting git. “What are you doing?” John managed to say, once his heart rate had moved towards normal.

“Listening to you breathe,” was what Sherlock said.

Sadly [or not], that response did not strike John as particularly odd. In the pantheon of things Sherlock Holmes did, listening to his flatmate breathing was pretty low on the scale of oddness. Still, John was a curious man. “Why are you doing that?” he asked, scooting up in the bed and propping himself against the headboard. 

Sherlock shifted position so that he was looking at John. His expression in the weak light was a curious mix of muted arrogance and something that was almost like fear. Was there anyone else who could be both arrogant and afraid at the same time like this?

Well, no, because Sherlock Holmes was unique.

John only watched, as Sherlock seemed to come to a decision.

“I was watching you breathe because I have decided that breathing is not boring when it is you doing it. The truth is, you must keep inhaling and exhaling forever, because I refuse to even imagine not having you beside me.”

Ironically, John suddenly couldn’t seem to get any oxygen into his lungs at all. “What?” he said in a slightly fractured voice.

Then Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s gaze and what John saw in the look made his heart flip over. “I’m in love with you,” he said. “Believe ne when I say this is not something I ever expected to happen.” He gave a ghost of a smile. “But then you walked into the lab at Barts.”

John wondered if this were a dream, because it would not be the first time his sleeping mind had led him down this path. He reached out a hand and touched Sherlock’s bicep. The flesh under his fingers certainly felt solid enough to be real. He glanced at Sherlock’s face and realised suddenly that he probably ought to say something in response to Sherlock’s words.

But what should he say?

In the end, it was so simple.

“I love you, too,” he whispered.

Sherlock leaned towards him just a little and then paused, as if leaving the choice to John. Except, of course, there was no real choice and there never had been. Not since the moment he walked into that lab, a limping wreck of a man with no life and no hope, and saw Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

John moved closer and their lips met. It was a light kiss, although in no way tentative, because all doubt was gone now. All hesitation vanished from both of them. This was absolutely right and it was the reason John Watson had been born.

Four arms moved at the same moment and the two men embraced. They just held onto one another in an Edinburgh hotel room for long moments, until finally they sank together into the mattress. Neither seemed to want to be the first to speak. Sherlock’s lips were pressed into John’s hair, not a kiss, exactly, more a nuzzling.

John didn’t mind. John rather thought that he would never mind anything again. He sighed lightly.

Not surprisingly, Sherlock was the one who broke the silence. What he said was a bit surprising, however.

“When I was five years old, my new nanny told me that because I was such a naughty boy, no one would ever want to be my friend.” He nuzzled some more. “And for a very long time she was right. Until John Watson appeared.”

John shifted slightly and kissed Sherlock again.

“When I was sixteen, a boy at school who fancied me until I told him that his mother was having an affair with the headmaster, said that no one would ever want to kiss a mouth that spewed such filth.”

This time the kiss John gave him was deeper and just slightly more heated.

Sherlock nearly smiled. “And then John Watson kissed me. Finally,” he added somewhat tartly.

“Oi,” John murmured. “Not all my fault.”

Sherlock, apparently, was not quite finished. “When I was thirty-four, Sally Donovan told me that no one would ever love me and that loneliness was exactly what I deserved.”

John spared a thought as to what he would say to Donovan if he encountered her again.

Now Sherlock lifted his hands and cupped John’s face. “But John Watson loves me.”

“John Watson loves you a ridiculous amount.”

They lay together in silence again for some time, exchanging small pats and fleeting kisses. “What now?” John asked.

“Now,” Sherlock said, “I would like to fall asleep with you and let the truth of this wrap around us. And in the morning I would like to make love, if that is what you also want.”

“It is,” John said. He pulled Sherlock closer, wrapping him safely in arms and legs and a soft linen quilt. “Sleep, Sherlock,” he said. “You have a friend. You have been kissed. You are profoundly loved.”

Sherlock seemed about to speak, but then he just gave a nod, curled into John’s body, and slept almost immediately.

John listened to him breathe until he could see dawn edging into the room.

#

 

-iv-

DUET  
[A piece of music written for  
two voices or instruments.]

 

The Tesco bags ended up being heavier than he had anticipated, so by the time John had walked home and climbed the seventeen stairs to the flat, his arms were feeling the strain. It was a relief to be able to deposit his burden on the table. The table that he had made sure was cleared of all experiments and other Sherlockian detritus before leaving. Also before departing, he had issued rather graphic threats as to what would happen if said table was not still pristine when he returned. Such threats made to Sherlock sometimes worked and apparently today was one of those times.

He was still a bit grumpy, though, because of the bloody heavy bags.

“Next time you demand that I buy seven different kinds of vegetable oil you can bloody well come along and carry them yourself,” he said, raising his voice so that it could be heard in the other room. When there was no reply, he stepped around the corner and looked at the empty sofa. He’d expected to see the languid form of the consulting detective still sprawled there, hands pyramided, eyes closed.

“Sherlock?” he called loudly enough to be heard in the bedroom or the loo.

When there was still no response, he sighed. The git had taken off someplace. Maybe Lestrade had called? But, no, if a case had suddenly appeared, John would have received a text with the demand to abandon the shopping and join Sherlock at wherever the crime scene might be.

Whether it was convenient or not.

A faint smile crossed John’s face. He went back into the kitchen and starting putting the groceries away. The seven [heavy!] bottles of vegetable oil, he left on the table. Maybe something interesting had arrived at the morgue prompting Molly to call. Before John could decide whether or not to check on that, his phone rang. Not a text, an actual call.

He glanced at the screen. Wrong Holmes. “Mycroft?” he said. “What do you want?”

“Do you know where Sherlock is?” Mycroft asked crisply.

John put the milk into the refrigerator and closed the door. “Not at the moment, but from the way you ask the question I’m assuming that you do.”

Instead of responding to that, Mycroft asked another question. “Is everything…all right between the two of you? Have you quarreled?”

“Are you suddenly taking an interest in our relationship?” John asked, his tone sharp.

“We both know all too well what my brother is like, John. If he’s done something unforgivable…”

“I would forgive him anyway,” John said. “He knows that. You know that. Hell, half of London knows that. But he hasn’t done anything that needs forgiving in the last thirty-six hours. What’s going on?”

It was only when he heard Mycroft take in a deep breath that John moved from irritation to a surge of worry. “John, Sherlock is on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital.” 

It was a lucky thing that there was a chair right behind John, otherwise he might well have dropped to the floor. “What did you say?” he asked in a suddenly raspy voice.

“My brother is sitting on the roof of Barts, John. Do you know why?”

“No. No. Everything is fine.” His mind went back to earlier that morning, waking up to Sherlock’s mouth on his neck, starting a journey downwards. A journey that ended with a rather shattering climax. Then Sherlock had smiled smugly and lay back for reciprocation. “Everything is fine,” he repeated.

He stood suddenly. “I have to go,” he said.

“Do you want…assistance?” Mycroft said, sounding strangely uncertain.

“Not unless I ask for it.” John cut the call and ran out the door, not even pausing when Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out to say hello.

For once, he was able to get a cab immediately.

The important thing was not to think about that other time he took a cab to St. Bart’s and found Sherlock on the roof.

Of course, that was all he could think about.

John jumped out of the cab as soon as it stopped and threw some money at the driver, no doubt tipping him extravagantly, and then could not stop himself from looking upwards immediately. There was no sign of a lanky figure in a long black coat standing on the ledge. Which was something, he supposed.

He did not allow himself to think much about anything as he took the lift as far as it went and then climbed a flight of stairs. The door was propped open with a red fire extinguisher that he took care to replace after stepping out.

Immediately, he saw Sherlock. The other man was sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He raised his head as John approached and blinked several times, but didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, in a low growl, he muttered, “Mycroft.”

John lowered himself to his knees. “Sherlock,” he said softly. “What are you doing?”

“Not jumping, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Worry was abruptly replaced by anger. “What the fuck was I supposed to think?” John felt his body sag. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock finally seemed to realise that John had been terrified and was now angry. “Damn Mycroft.” He reached out and put an arm around John, pulling him close. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to know. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Well, you did.”

Sherlock gave an uncharacteristic sigh; the man huffed quite frequently, but genuine sighs were much more rare. “And that is exactly the point,” he said, murmuring the words into John’s hair.

Now it was John’s turn to sigh. Which he actually did quite frequently. “Is that supposed to make anything clear to me? Because it really doesn’t.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. John considered making a rude gesture that might inspire Mycroft to turn off whatever camera was undoubtedly watching them.

“I broke your heart,” Sherlock said finally. “When I jumped. When I let you believe I was dead for so long. I hate the triteness of the words, but that is what I did. I broke your heart.”

“You did. But I understand why you thought it was necessary.”

“It was necessary,” Sherlock said stubbornly. “Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

“I forgave you.”

“Yes, you did. Probably you shouldn’t have.”

John opened his mouth, but before he could speak or even decide what he wanted to say, Sherlock put an index finger against his lips.

“Let me say this please. I have wanted to, needed to, for such a long time.”

John just nodded.

Sherlock just sat there for another moment. “There is a question…today was going to be the day I finally asked it.” He gave a sidewise glance and a small smile. “To that end, we have a reservation for dinner at Angelo’s later.”

As ordered, John stayed quiet, but he lifted a hand and tangled his fingers in dark curls. Sherlock moved his head just a little, like a cat nudging the hand into movement. John complied.

“I woke up this morning and somehow just knew it was time.” Something like rue crossed Sherlock’s face. “And then I started to think.”

“As you do,” John murmured.

“Yes. I thought about how badly I treated you and how easily you forgave me. Maybe you shouldn’t have. You must know that I will probably be a bit not good, always. Not because I want to be, but…”

“You are what you are, Sherlock, and I would not have you any different.”

Sherlock considered those words for a moment and then continued. “ I started to wonder if maybe the best thing for me to do would be to let you go. Before I broke your heart again.”

That statement was so very wrong that John could not even decide how to start refuting it. All he could do was shake his head.

“I came up here, to the very place where I hurt you so much, because I thought being here would give me the strength to do the right thing. But then you walked through that door and I knew that I could never let you go.”

John snorted. “As if I would leave. There is nothing you could do to make me go.” Then John fixed him with a stony look. “But I wish you hadn’t decided to do your thinking up here.”

Sherlock smirked. “Bit not good. I did warn you.”

“So what’s that question you mentioned?”

Sherlock straightened. “My understanding is that I should go down on one knee, but as we are both already on the floor anyway…” He took John’s hand and inhaled deeply. “I would be very pleased, John Hamish Watson, if you would marry me.” 

John had to swallow an inappropriate chuckle, because the cool formality of Sherlock’s words was belied by the almost painful vulnerability visible in his eyes. “Will you promise me one thing?” he said.

“What?”

“To never, ever, come up here again unless I’m with you,” John said firmly.

After a moment, Sherlock nodded. “I can promise you that. In return---“

“Yes?”

Sherlock’s next words were a whisper. “Never leave me.”

“I can promise you that.” He echoed Sherlock’s words. Then he grinned. “So I guess we’re getting married.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

John leaned in to kiss him. “Let’s go home and consummate the engagement.”

Sherlock frowned. “Is that traditional?”

John laughed, then stood and pulled Sherlock up as well. After taking a moment to make that rude gesture for the benefit of Mycroft’s camera, mostly because he knew that the older Holmes would be expecting it, he grasped Sherlock’s hand again and they left the rooftop.

# 

-v-

 

DISSONANCE  
[Highly discordant and with a lack  
of harmony.]

 

The whole case was tedious in the extreme, right up until the moment that it wasn’t. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was dangerous, exhilarating, and quite nearly fatal. Sherlock was swept away with the drama, as usual, and did not even realise that he had done something A Bit Not Good, until John told him so.

Well, until John shouted that information at him, actually.

John was a champion shouter, even while he was also trying to staunch the gushing of blood from Sherlock’s leg. Apparently, the knife had sliced a spot very near the femoral artery, which fact seemed to upset John greatly. Sherlock spared just a moment to realise, not for the first time, how proud he was to have a husband who could so perfectly practice his medical skills at the same he was busy being extremely furious.

John Watson was a wonder. Perhaps they should proclaim him one of those wonders of the world people were always on about..

It was entirely possible, Sherlock thought, that he was becoming somewhat light-headed from loss of blood. Still, it was probably important to let John know that he was appreciated; being married rather obligated one to that sort of thing and, truthfully, Sherlock did not mind. “John, you are marvelous,” he mumbled.

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock,” John snapped. “Concentrate on not bleeding out before the ambulance gets here, if you would. You unadulterated arse.”

Despite the fact that he was a marvel, it seemed that Dr. Watson’s bedside manner could use just a little work. This was probably not the time to tell him that, however.

“You went running off on your own again, Sherlock,” John said tightly. “After all your promises. If I hadn’t found you when I did…” John shut up, as if he were afraid of what he might say. He continued the excellent doctoring, however.

As Sherlock was still trying to decide if an apology might be in order, the ambulance arrived. Other hands took over and they were not as gentle as John’s hands had been. In a very short time, he found himself bundled into the vehicle and they were moving. John was sat next to him, still not talking.

And then someone stuck a needle into his arm and Sherlock felt the world---i.e. John---slip away.

*  
Some unknown time later, Sherlock awoke alone in a hospital room.

Well, not strictly alone, it seemed, because Mycroft was standing at the window, staring out at whatever he could see. Without turning around, he spoke. “I left an important meeting with the Saudi ambassador so that you would not be alone when you woke up,” Mycroft said in a vaguely annoyed tone.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask the obvious, but his throat was so dry that a slight croak was the only sound to emerge.

With a sigh, Mycroft walked over to the bedside table, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Sherlock. “John called and asked---well, ordered me, really---to come and play nanny.”

“Where--?” That was a little better, but he swallowed more water.

“Your husband is not best pleased with you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said testily. “He waited until it was obvious that you would survive this latest folly and then he simply took himself off. I have no idea to where. Baker Street, perhaps.”

“Did he say when he would be back?” Sherlock hated that his voice still sounded weak.

“He did not. Perhaps you have pushed the man too far this time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wanted to shut Mycroft down with a stinging retort; he wanted to make a mockery of the very idea that John would ever…could ever… But at the moment, Sherlock felt that he could not be certain of anything. And, in fact, John was not here. “Mycroft,” was all he finally said and that one word was both a question and a plea.

“Yes,” his brother said. “I will utilize those cameras to which you usually take such exception and see if I can locate your wayward spouse.”

Sherlock just rested back against the pillow and closed his eyes, wondering how long he would be confined here.

*

Nearly twenty-four hours passed before Sherlock signed himself out, over the objections of the attending physician. Who was not his doctor and so it did not matter what the idiot thought or said. When he reached the pavement, there was an ominous black car waiting for him. Luckily, there was no ominous sibling inside. He’d had only one text from Mycroft, chastising him for how well he had taught John the techniques of avoiding surveillance.

The car delivered him to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a hug and a sad expression. After a few boring questions, she peered around him. “Where is John?” she asked. “I saw him briefly when he came to change out of his bloody clothes, but I assumed he would be with you.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, because he had no idea what to say. Until that moment, he had kept himself calm [sane?] by assuming that John would be waiting for him upstairs.

But, apparently, he wasn’t.

That fact did not fit into the reality of Sherlock’s life and so he did not know what to do with the knowledge. He left Mrs. Hudson standing in the foyer, still nattering, and managed to drag himself up the seventeen steps, each one of them bringing a sharp stab of pain to his leg, but that discomfort was easily ignored in light of the much worse pain he felt inside.

Had John left him?

Before this moment, Sherlock would have found such a notion ridiculous. What he and John shared was too strong to ever be broken, especially by just one more example of his own stupidity. John was surely used to him by this time.

But now he wasn’t sure of anything. To wake up and find only Mycroft in the hospital room and now to come home [although the word was scarcely applicable to this place if it did not contain John Watson] and not find a thoroughly pissed-off husband waiting to welcome and berate him, was bewildering. Unsettling.

In truth, Sherlock did not to know what to do with himself.

So he merely sat in one corner of the sofa and waited.

*  
He was still there several hours later when Mrs. Hudson brought him dinner. Instead of simply setting the tray down in front of him and then leaving so he could ignore the meal in peace, she sat in John’s chair. He glared at her and she ignored him. Her gaze went to the plate.

Maybe if he ate a little she would leave. Sherlock took a small bite of the mashed potatoes. After swallowing, he said, without intending to, “John has left me.”

“Oh, surely not. He adores you, Sherlock, as much as you do him. Why would he leave?”

Sherlock gave great attention to cutting a minute sliver of roasted chicken and ate it. “Why wouldn’t he? I am a ‘unadultered arse’. That is a direct quote.”

Mrs. Hudson snickered. “I have heard him call you worse than that when you leave wet towels on the floor.”

Sherlock wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that this was different, and even maybe that John was right to go. He had known, on the day he proposed on the roof of St. Bart’s, that what he had to offer was not good enough. John deserved so much more.

Apparently, he managed to swallow enough of the meal to satisfy his not-housekeeper and so she finally departed, leaving only the tea, which he ignored because John had not made it for him.

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, although he had no intention of sleeping. Instead, he retreated into the refuge of his Mind Palace and went to the room that held every memory of John he had. Stepping inside was like wrapping himself in a soft, warm blanket.

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock fell asleep while remembering the day he returned from the dead, most especially the look that had appeared on John’s face when he found his flatmate standing at the door.

*

“Sherlock? Wake up, love. You’re due a pain pill and I want you out of the coat and shoes so you can be comfortable. Mycroft already got the blood out of the Belstaff, eh? He does come in handy sometimes.”

John’s voice washed over him like a balm and Sherlock finally blinked his eyes open. “John,” he barely said.

Two gentle lips pressed against Sherlock’s forehead. “Hello, love. I’m sorry. I’ve been off sulking.” John did not specify just what it was he felt the need to apologise for, but it didn’t matter. “I didn’t know you were out of hospital.”

“My fault,” Sherlock said, watching as John pulled off his shoes for him.

“You frightened me,” John said.

“Sorrysorrysorry.” Sherlock let himself be lifted up enough so that John could pull the coat off. Then he obediently swallowed a pain pill with just a sip of water, before lying down again, this time stretched out against the back of the sofa.

John understood the silent invitation and, after kicking off his own shoes, and pulling the jumper over his head, he arranged himself against Sherlock.

“I thought you’d left me,” Sherlock whispered.

“I was afraid you were going to leave me,” John countered. “You were bleeding to death in that fucking alley and I didn’t know if I was going to e able to save you.”

“You did.” Sherlock pushed his face into John’s neck and inhaled deeply. “You always do.”

“Please don’t run off without me like that any more,” John said. “I won’t leave you, but you might break my heart again.”

Sherlock could feel John’s heart beating strongly against him and he could not bear the thought of that sturdy organ being hurt in any way. “I won’t,” he promised, meaning it.

“We’ll be alright then,” John replied. He stroked Sherlock’s hair and murmured nonsense and, all too soon, Sherlock was asleep again.

#

 

-vi-

HARMONY  
[The pleasing combination of  
two notes played together.]

 

John was just finishing the washing up from breakfast when, through the window over the sink, he saw the long black car turn from the lane into their drive. The sight gave him pause.

It was a rare occasion these days when Mycroft Holmes stirred himself to leave his London lair [AKA The Diogenes Club], especially to travel out to this cottage. The man was so reluctant to leave the city that John sometimes doubted the veracity of the ‘retirement’ he had announced nearly five years ago.

Still, if he had made the effort to come all the way out to Sussex to see them, John should go to greet him. And more politely than was being done by Gladstone, who was standing on the path, barking ferociously. John stepped out the door. “Shush,” he said to the bulldog, who immediately stopped barking and flopped onto the ground. Truthfully, he was too lazy to ever be much of a threat. Which, as Sherlock never failed to point out, put the lie to one of John’s arguments for getting a dog in the first place. That did not mean, of course, that the detective [retired, mostly, although he could still be lured out by something interesting enough] was not rather soppy over the creature.

By now, the driver had made sure that Mycroft was safely out of the car and on the path, and was settling back behind the wheel again.

Mycroft deigned the use of a walking stick, but the ubiquitous brolly served as a steadying aid as he approached. “Good morning, John,” he said, reaching the cottage.

“Mycroft,” John said politely. “This is a surprise.”

He looked irritated. Even more so than usual. “I did text Sherlock to expect me, but he never responded.”

John tried, with limited success he knew, to suppress his smile. “Well, to be fair, he probably never even saw it. Sherlock tends to ignore his mobile these days.”

That was nothing but the truth, although John was still somewhat amazed by it. He had feared more than a little that retiring, for the most part anyway, and moving to the country would pall quickly on Sherlock Holmes, that whirlwind of deduction. But, no, the still lanky git seemed completely content with his experiments and books, the bees and the dog, and, of course, John.

Mycroft just impatiently tapped the tip of his brolly against the flagstones. Twice.

John gestured. “Sherlock is in the back garden. The apiary.”

“His obsession with those creatures seems all-consuming,” Mycroft said. Then, with the condescending smile of old, he added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you felt quite neglected at times.”

John only shrugged. “Sherlock never neglects me.” Then he smirked. “And the uses of honey are innumerable.”

It was possible that a slight pinkness touched Mycroft’s cheeks. But he recovered quickly. “I’ll just go round then, shall I?” he said crisply.

“Do. I’ll put the kettle on. Make sure that Sherlock comes in with you. He’ll need a cuppa and a biscuit by then.”

Mycroft just nodded and tapped his way around to the side path.

John went back into the kitchen, but Gladstone decided to stay where he was and soak up some sun. He would come inside when the biscuit tin was opened, John knew.

He finished wiping down the countertops, ignoring the part that held several in-progress experiments. There was actually a room designated for that kind of thing, but Sherlock complained that being confined in there, while John and Gladstone were settled cosily in the parlour, made made him feel like a pariah. From this spot in the kitchen, he could see them. When everything was tidy, John refilled the kettle and put it back on the Aga. He supposed that if one were going to be absolutely proper, he would fix a tray and carry it into the parlour. But that was extra trouble and, anyway, they always had their elevenses in the kitchen sitting at the sturdy farmhouse table.

While waiting for the two Holmes brothers to come inside, John checked his email, but found nothing of interest, apart from a note from his publisher, commenting on the latest submission, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. A quite positive comment, John was pleased to see.

He even had time to make the bed and was putting HobNobs and gingersnaps [Mycroft was partial to them] on a plate when he finally heard the rear door open and the sound of Sherlock depositing his beekeeping accouterments on the bench kept in the back hall just for the purpose.

As always, once Sherlock was in the kitchen, he bent slightly so that John could press a light kiss to his cheek. This was one of their new rituals since moving to the country. It was a silent acknowledgment that time was passing. 

John stepped over the dog to retrieve the teapot and joined the others at the table. The conversation was mundane and punctuated with long pauses. John was very curious about what had brought Mycroft out here for a visit, especially because whatever it was had put a shadow in Sherlock’s eyes. But he didn’t ask.

After about thirty minutes, Mycroft finished one last gingersnap, then dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. “Well, I best be off.”

John went to the cupboard and took out a jar of heather honey. He only smiled a little as he handed it to Mycroft.

“Thank you, John,” he said drily. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock only nodded, looking with apparent interest at the tabletop.

Mycroft left. Gladstone was the only one to watch him go. Sherlock picked up another HobNob, broke it in half and tossed one piece down on the floor for the dog. A moment later they heard the car purr its way down the lane.

“Everything all right?” John asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock blinked at him. “Oh, yes. Fine.” Then he shrugged. “Mycroft is having surgery next week.”

“Is it serious?” Even as he asked it, John recognised the absurdity of the question. After a certain age, everything was serious.

“He seems optimistic.”

John busied himself tidying away the tea things. “Shall we go into London on the day?”

Sherlock bent down to scratch Gladstone’s ear and John could see ever-increasing silver highlights in the dark curls. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Mycroft would never ask, but I think he might…appreciate it.”

John nodded decisively. “We’ll go. A few days at Baker Street would be lovely.”

Sherlock gave him a faint smile. After another moment, he stood, dropped a quick kiss on the top of John’s head, and went back to his bees.

*

John was not yet sleeping when Sherlock finally came into the room, pulled off his dressing gown, and crawled into bed with him. He wrapped himself around John in a so-familiar octopus way and inhaled deeply.

John relaxed in the embrace and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck just a bit.

Gladstone snored lightly from his bed in the corner of the room; otherwise, all was quiet.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair.

John sighed lightly.

They lay awake for a very long time, watching the silvery moonlight creep across the room, listening to the sound of their dog sleeping, and held onto one another.

#

 

-vii-

LEITMOTIF  
[A musical theme given to a  
particular character or idea.]

 

_Today I harvested the final major nectar flow of the season. The honey still held the last remnants of the summer warmth, so the task was easily accomplished._

Sherlock was suddenly aware that he had been working at the laptop for longer than he’d realised. Much longer, judging by the light in the sitting room, which had gone from lunchtime brightness to a late afternoon autumn gloom. He frowned slightly. The time for his usual cup of tea and biscuit had come and gone. “John?” he called out irritably. “My tea?”

There was no reply.

It was only then that he remembered.

Something about getting the shopping in had been mentioned over lunch. “Soon as I do the washing up,” John said as they finished toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. “Nice day for a walk to the village.”

Sherlock had nodded absently, already thinking of his apiary journal entry.

“Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” John asked, starting to clear the table.

“Not this time,” Sherlock said, folding his serviette tidily.

John gave a soft chuckle. “Or the last time. And I feel safe in saying probably not the next time either.”

Sherlock was still finishing his tea when John bent to give him a soft kiss. “And, no worry, I even made a list so I won’t forget the milk again.”

“Or the HobNobs,” Sherlock added sharply, still piqued over that incident. 

John frowned and reached for a pencil to add that to his list. “HobNobs,” he muttered.

“Try not to get distracted by the widow who runs the shop.” Sherlock reached up a hand and ran his fingers through John’s soft white hair.  
“Pah,” John said. “My jealous Sherlock.” One more kiss and he was out the door.

But that had been hours ago. Even given the slow pace at which his husband moved these days---and the annoying fawning of the woman in the shop---John should have long been home by now.

Sherlock’s irritation had vanished completely, replaced by a frisson of worry. Automatically, he reached for his phone, but on the other end it just rang and rang before going to voice mail. “Dammit, John,” he whispered, cutting the call. 

His mind was racing now, almost in the old way, conceiving of and rejecting various scenarios. Finally, he settled on one possibility that was definitely worrying, but still far from the worst option.

Undoubtedly, John had tripped and sprained an ankle. Even spraining both ankles was not beyond belief; the idiot had always been a little clumsy. Probably he had landed on his phone, so…

After the accident, he probably fell asleep lying in the field that was the shortcut to the village. John had the ability to sleep anywhere.

This was the story that Sherlock kept telling himself as he donned his shabby Belstaff and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He deliberately fought the urge to hurry, to swoop out and play the hero. His swooping was not terribly graceful these days and he had not played the hero in at least ten years.

He huffed impatiently when he realised that, taken in by the lunchtime sunshine, John had not worn his warmer jacket, but only the tattered cardigan that was always hung by the door. Idiot. Idiot.

Sherlock blinked.

Too bad, he mused while looking for his torch, that Gladstone no longer slumbered by the fire. Lazy the dog might have been, but he could always locate John or Sherlock when they played that game with him.

Sherlock blinked again, took John’s coat in hand, and left the cottage, pulling on his gloves as he went. The light was fading rapidly and the wind was even more brisk than he had expected, so he moved as quickly as he could towards the field. “John?” he called out after a few minutes. “John?” His voice was less calm than he would have liked.

There was no reply.

Sherlock walked on, as the darkness grew heavier. The torchlight was a comfort. “Where are you, John, you foolish old man?” he said softly. “JOHN!” It was a bellow now.

He was nearly half way through the field, with the lights of the village just coming into view, when he saw a silhouette he would recognise anywhere, anytime. “John?” he whispered.

His husband appeared to be walking in circles around the old well. “Our wishing well,” he’d called the relic when they first discovered it. “Shall I toss a penny in?”

“Is there something you need to wish for?” Sherlock had murmured, stepping closer.

John only grinned and shook his head. “No, I have everything I could ever want,” he said, reaching for Sherlock’s hand.

“Save the penny then,” Sherlock advised. 

Now Sherlock paused where he was, watching John move slowly around the well and apparently talking softly to himself as he went.

Finally Sherlock felt able to move forward. “John,” he said tenderly.

Immediately, John turned to see him and an expression of utter relief filled his face. “Oh, Sherlock, hello,” he said. Then he gave a small laugh. “I’ve been lost. Couldn’t remember how to get to the Tesco, isn’t that silly? Can’t even find the Tube.” He shook his head in apparent bemusement.

Sherlock wrapped both arms around him and held on tightly for just a moment. Then he realised that John was shivering, so he stepped back and helped him into the coat.

“I haven’t got the shopping yet,” John said apologetically.

“Never mind that, love. Shall we go home now?”

“Yes, please.”

It was a slow journey, with Sherlock still holding John a bit too tightly, but John did not complain.

Once they were back at the cottage, Sherlock refreshed the fire and made tea while John sat at the kitchen table, watching and still looking slightly bewildered. As he warmed up, however, his face calmed. They held hands across the table and sipped tea.

“Well,” John said finally, sounding like himself again. “That was very silly of me, wasn’t it? Can’t imagine where my mind was. Hope you haven’t been too worried.”

Sherlock just shook his head, one thumb rubbing at John’s palm.

“Silly,” John said again, but now there was a shadow in his gaze. It looked something like fear.

“Finish your tea,” Sherlock said quietly. “Then it’s a warm bath and straight into bed for you, John Watson.”

A smile tried to tug at John’s lips. “Will you come to bed with me?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. Then he scooted his chair closer and wrapped his arms around John as tightly as before. “Of course,” he said again. “Always.”

#

 

-viii-

ORATORIA  
[An extended cantina on  
a sacred subject.]

 

John Watson could clearly remember the very first time that he ever fired a gun. [That realisation was mildly irritating in light of the fact that he could not exactly recall what he’d had for lunch just over an hour ago, but that was his life now. Which was rather the point.]

Anyway.

The gun thing.

He had been ten years old, just, and was spending a long weekend with his grandfather. Not the doctor one; this was his paternal grandfather, the farmer. It was a crisp autumn day and they were tramping through the dense woodland in search of pheasants. John was carrying a small rifle that did not belong to him, taking care to keep it pointed at the ground as Grampy had instructed.

Truthfully, John wasn’t altogether certain that he really wanted to kill anything. He hadn’t told Grampy that, of course.

Now, so many years later, he could still recall the faint tang of smoke that hung in the morning air. The crackle of leaves beneath his boots. The satin-smooth feel of the polished wood of the gunstock. Grampy making an occasional remark in his gravelly smoker’s voice, which was probably an early indication of the cancer that would kill him in less than two years.

In the end, John pointed his rifle at the tree and not at the bird.

*

The cool metal of his old pistol was what John was feeling now. And the so-familiar comfort of their mattress as he sat propped up against the headboard. He inhaled the faint fragrance of honey, a smell that was never really absent from the cottage.

And there was the sound of Sherlock’s voice, the constant background of John’s life for such a long time. For the blink of an eye that was his life. Sherlock spoke from the sitting room, raising his voice a little to be heard. “…and I do think you were quite right, John, about the Tompkins boy. He seems keen on the subject of the hives and I think he might prove useful. Not that I need…”

The beloved voice washed over and around John like a favorite quilt, wrapping him in familiarity and a sense of calmness. As he listened, his fingers slid slowly along the barrel of the gun. It was odd, he mused, how often over the course of his life this hunk of metal had served as a source of reassurance.

Firstly, lying in the sand of Afghanistan, bleeding out, not knowing if his rescuers or his executioners would be first to appear over the ridge. Not sure if he would be alive to find out.

Not caring all that much, in truth.

The gun was his strength.

Later, after his return to London as a damaged and useless shadow of the man he had been, living in the sterile bedsit. The weapon rested in the drawer and not a day went by that he didn’t look at it. Think about using it. 

The gun was a comfort.

“John,” Sherlock said now, “what would you think of getting another dog? Not a pup, obviously, as neither of us has the energy for that now. But I thought maybe a rescue? An old fellow in need of a place to spend the rest of his days in peace? Think about it, won’t you?”

Sherlock never expected any responses during his daily monologues.

John smiled faintly.

He remembered the dark days while Sherlock was gone, moving around the world and working to tear down Moriarty’s empire. When he had been ‘dead’. Oh, how many nights then had John spent in the silent and familiar companionship of the gun, his fingers caressing the cold metal almost as if it were the skin of a lover.

Sherlock never knew how close he had been returning to find only a grave awaiting him. Or, maybe, Sherlock did know, but he never said.

John understood, of course, what was happening to him now. To his mind. He also knew that there was nothing to be done except continue the slow and relentless fall into the black pit that was his future.

He was frightened and angry and grieving. The fear and anger were his own to deal with. The grief, however, was not for himself, but for the man he loved so desperately, who would have to watch it all happen while pretending to be strong.

Mightn’t it be kinder to just end it all now?

“I think some tea would go down a treat, John, don’t you? I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I? And we still have some of that cake left from yesterday.”

John had not noticed Sherlock’s voice getting closer and so it was a surprise to suddenly realise that he was there, standing in the bedroom.

“John? The tea?” And then Sherlock saw the gun.

John looked at him and saw that his husband understood immediately what was going on. Well, of course he did. He was bloody Sherlock Holmes. “It might be kinder,” John began. “Don’t you think?”

Sherlock crossed the room and sat on the bed next to him. “No, John,” he said quietly. “It would not be kinder.”

“I don’t want you to have to go through this,” John whispered. But he did not object when Sherlock reached to take away the gun. There was only one bullet inside. He had thrown the others out, not wanting to leave a loaded gun within easy reach of his husband. 

Sherlock moved as quickly as his slightly shaking hands allowed and removed that one bullet. He put it into the pocket of his dressing gown and the gun back into the drawer. “You promised to never leave me,” he muttered.

“I don’t want to,” John said. “But---”

Sherlock bent over and rested his head against John’s stomach. “Please,” was all he said.

John could feel the warm moistness of Sherlock’s breath through his old tee. He could smell the ridiculously expensive hair crème that Sherlock still used on the thick silver curls. He lifted a hand and tangled his fingers in those curls as he had done countless times.

“I’m not being noble or self-sacrificing,” Sherlock said quietly. “It is the most selfish thing I have ever done.”

John could say nothing to that. He just kept moving his fingers in the curls.

Sherlock sighed against his belly.

It was a long time before they had their tea.  
#

 

-ix-

RECAPITULATION  
[A reprise.}

John understood, even in his state of intermittent mental fog, that Sherlock was only trying to help. Sherlock was desperate to help. “It’s a waste of time,” John said.

Sherlock was holding his hand. They were sitting on the bench in the front of the garden, watching the hives and enjoying the warm sunshine.

“There is no cure for this,” John went on. “Only release.” His words were true, but he immediately regretted saying them because of the flash of pain that crossed Sherlock’s face. He never wanted to hurt his husband, but there was no way to avoid it now.

After a moment, Sherlock raised John’s hand to his lips and nuzzled the fingers one by one. “He does not promise a cure, John. Simply some alleviation. A little time.” 

John wondered when time had become the most precious commodity they had.

Sherlock sighed. “At moments like this I miss my brother. He would be able to tell us everything about this Doctor Samir.”

That comment reminded John of something he had been thinking earlier. He wondered why Mycroft never came to see them anymore. He was an annoying git to be sure, but he was family, after all, and… “We should call him,” he suggested. “See what he has to say.”

Sherlock’s hand on his tightened just a little and it was a moment before he spoke. “Mycroft is dead, John, for two years now. You know that.”

And John realised that he did, in fact, know that. He didn’t apologise for the lapse, however, because his apologies always seemed to upset Sherlock more than whatever it was he was saying sorry for.

They watched the bees flit through the warm air.

Sherlock straightened a bit and spoke more firmly. “If nothing else, John, we’ll have an outing to London. We’ll spend a night at the Ritz and play at being detective and blogger again.”

“Why don’t we---“ John bit off the rest of his question, because it came to him, vaguely, that they no longer owned the building on Baker Street. “So we’ll revisit our glorious history,” he said instead.

“And a glorious history it is,” Sherlock remarked. Then he pulled John closer and hugged him.

John gave up his fight over seeing the specialist, because he wanted to make Sherlock happy and there was so little he could do these days to accomplish that. He would go see this Doctor Whoever and maybe Sherlock would smile.

Sherlock kissed him gently.

*

John was not entirely sure why they were sitting in this office---something to do with a case, no doubt---but it was a comfortable place and the tea was decent, so he just sat back and let Sherlock handle it as he watched the fish cavorting in a large tank on one wall. He could get all the details later for the blog.

Finally, he turned back to the conversation.

“You mustn’t expect miracles,” the man behind the desk was saying. “But several patients have experienced increased periods of lucidity.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said crisply. “It is worth trying.”

There was some talk about the local surgery, blood tests, appointments, but John had rather lost interest, so he only half-listened.

A thick envelope was pushed across the desk. “I have included some information about other resources in Sussex,” the man said.

Sherlock did not pick up the envelope yet. “Other resources?”

“Aides, care homes, that sort of thing. For when Mr. Watson requires more than you can provide on your own.”

John leaned forward a little. “It’s Doctor Watson,” he said firmly.

Sherlock gave him a barely-there smile. “Indeed it is. And I will give him all the care he needs. John will be going nowhere.”

John found that remark reassuring, although he was not sure why. He reached out and curled his fingers into the sleeve of Sherlock’s jacket.

*

Sherlock had the hired limo that had brought them to London take them on a tour of the city. Not of the usual tourists sites, of course.

They went to Baker Street and parked briefly in front of 221. Sherlock almost thought that he could see the figures of two young men standing there on the pavement to hail a cab as they set off on an adventure. He wanted to laugh at the memory and he also wanted to weep at how quickly it had all gone by.

“I remember the day I first came here,” John said suddenly. “You were such a bloody whirlwind of activity. A serial killer and Xmas. I thought you were a maniac.”

Sherlock chuckled. “And I said danger and there you were.”

John’s laugh was really only a huff of air. “I had no idea how dangerous you really were.”

“Nonsense. You were already half in love with me. Although you kept denying it for a ridiculously long time.”

“Had to. You were married to your work.”

“We were both idiots,” Sherlock admitted.

They went to Scotland Yard, back on Victoria Embankment since 2015. The hustle and bustle was the same as what they remembered.

John seemed to hesitate and then said softly, “Lestrade is dead, too, right?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

John sighed and peered out at the scurrying pedestrians. “Everybody thought we lived such a crazy life and now we’re the only ones left.”

“That’s because we have each other,” Sherlock murmured.

“Careful, my love, that almost sounded sentimental.”

Sherlock gave a snort.

They drove by St. Barts. but did not stop and then to where Angelo’s used to be. It was now a cheese shop. The car was driving through the park when Sherlock looked at John and saw the familiar fog edging into his eyes. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “We’ll go back to Sussex now,” he said. The driver nodded.

Sherlock settled into the plush leather seat and pulled John down unto his lap. “Rest, why don’t you,” he said. “I’ll wake you when we get home.”

John nodded and curled into Sherlock. “Nice day,” he mumbled thickly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, John.” He pressed a kiss to John’s temple.

The car was quiet all the way home.

#

 

-x-

PASTORAL  
[A composition with a simple  
style and idyllic rural scenes.]

 

They used to have a favorite spot for the occasional picnic, a sun-drenched meadow on the other side of the village. It was pleasant to pack a light lunch---bread, cheese, wine, and something sweet for afters---and walk side by side to that meadow. As they walked, Sherlock would discourse on the various flora and fauna of the area, especially as it related to honey production. John would listen with that expression of quiet delight that Sherlock’s monologues [whether on beekeeping or murder] had always inspired in him.

That walk was not really possible any longer. Nevertheless, when the day turned warm and bright after a week of gloomy skies, Sherlock packed some things in the small wicker basket, picked up the well-worn quilt that always served them on such occasions, and took John by the hand. The journey now took them only as far as the back garden.

Sherlock spread the quilt and told John to sit. “This is nice, isn’t it, John?” he sad briskly, setting out the lunch things. “We have not picnicked in some time.”

John’s fingers toyed with the ragged edge of the quilt. “We should have brought Gladstone,” he fretted. “He doesn’t like being left on his own.”

There had been two other dogs since Gladstone, both older bulldogs upon whom John doted extravagantly until the end of their days, but it was always Gladstone who came to his mind.

Sherlock was still cutting cheese into small bits. “Gladstone was too lazy for the walk,” he said.

John grinned.

Sherlock smiled at him. Then he held out a piece of bread with some cheese on top. “Lunch,” he said.

John took the offering and began to nibble. “You eat, too,” he said firmly.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said. He could tell from the expression on John’s face that there was something his husband wanted to say and he waited patiently for the words to come. When they did, it was unexpected.

“How long have you loved me?”

Honestly, Sherlock had been expecting something along the lines of ‘what colour is your shirt?” or “has Lestrade called with a case?” Startled, he only blinked for a moment. [But that had always been true, hadn’t it? John Watson always startled him.] Sherlock took another small bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I have loved you forever,” he said then.

John gave a faint snort. “Not possible.”

Sherlock poured some apple juice into a paper cup and handed it to him. “Of course it is possible, because forever began for me when you walked into the lab at Barts. Before that moment, there was only the void.”

John seemed to think about that as he reached for another piece of bread and let Sherlock slip some cheese on top.

It was actually Sherlock who picked up the thread of the conversation. “You will laugh at me,” he said, “but in my heart I knew even then that we would be together forever.”

But John didn’t laugh. Instead, he nodded. “Again with forever, my love?” His gaze darkened a little more. “Until the void comes back.”

Sherlock reached into the basket and removed a small jar of honey. He opened it and drizzled some of the amber sweetness onto a piece of bread. “Even in the void,” he said firmly. “We will always be together.”

“I hope so.” John’s voice was growing less firm, which meant that his mind was starting to get foggy. “The void would be very lonely if you were not there with me.”

“Believe in me, John.” Sherlock took a bite of the bread and honey, then held it to John’s lips. They ate it slowly, trading bites until it was gone.

After a quick tidy, Sherlock stretched out on the quilt, nudging John to stretch out as well. “Let’s have a bit of a nap,” he suggested.

“Then we’ll go home to Gladstone.”

“Yes, John.” He pulled the other man closer and nuzzled his hair.

Sherlock did not intend to sleep, really, but somehow life caught up with him and he slipped into a light doze.

*  
John watched Sherlock sleep. He lifted a hand and smoothed the lovely curls, trying very hard to tuck the memory away so deeply inside that it would not, could not, be forgotten.

It would be a comfort to remember as he floated in the void. Just in case he lost Sherlock in the blackness.

#

 

-xi-

CODA  
[The closing section of a movement.]

 

Before sitting down at the desk, Sherlock paused to turn the music on. Soft strains of a violin solo filled the space. It was a download of him playing one of his own compositions. Tonight, it was My Blogger and he could feel his fingers twitch a little with the urge to pick up the Strad for the first time in months. He resisted the temptation, however, because there were other things that had to be done. He would not have minded listening to a little Fritz Kreisler, honestly, but these days the only music allowed was his own, because otherwise John would frown and complain.

Well, perhaps he would.

Sherlock felt as if there were no absolutes left in the world anymore. Nothing that could be trusted.

He amended that: It was a surety that John would sleep better if the music were playing.

Outside, the storm that had been threatening all day had finally arrived. The north wind was howling and the snow had already started to pile up. It made the cottage feel very cozy.

After pouring himself a slightly larger than usual portion from the bottle of the excellent 17-year-old Balvenie Doublewood whisky which lived on the sideboard [and, good god, he deserved it, especially tonight], Sherlock sat at the desk and opened his tablet. A quick look at the calendar reassured him that he hadn’t missed a day or a week, so he opened the file.

_Vital Statistics:_  
Weight: Ten stone  
BP: 100/65  
Heart Rate: 70 

Those, of course, were the easy notes to write, because the numbers were verifiable. Simple facts. Science. Naturally, being the man he was, Sherlock tried to make everything he wrote equally objective. It was simply research, after all.

Sherlock knew very well that he often fell short of that goal.

He had learned to live with that.  
He paused, listening to both the peacefulness of the music and the rage of the storm just beyond the window. There was something quite right, he decided, about the juxtaposition. A sip of the whisky and he started writing again.

_JHW awoke at 07:15. We washed and dressed and for breakfast he ate one slice of toast with jam and drank two cups of tea…_

Sherlock was painfully aware that all of this record keeping was an exercise in absurd futility. What, in fact, was the point of sitting here every night recording the minutia of a man’s life? [The life of two men, he amended immediately. They lived in unison.]

But even knowing that it would all come to nothing, Sherlock could not help himself. There were no more cases. No more experiments to conduct. No more apiary activity to document.

There was only John and so he kept his notes.

_…the weather was not conducive to our usual slow stroll in the garden, so JHW and I watched some ridiculous chat show as I guided him through some easy stretches. He complained. Then we ate chocolate Hobnobs with our tea..._

An especially brutal blast of wind and snow hit the cottage. Sherlock paused in his writing and sipped the whisky for a few moments, enjoying the woody, honeyed spiciness of the drink. It had been a favorite indulgence of Mycroft’s and he always gave his brother a thought when he drank it. He listened to hear if the storm had awakened John.

But the bedroom remained silent. Sherlock licked a few drops of whisky from his upper lip and returned to work.

_JHW refused lunch. We sat at the window and watched the clouds skitter across the sky. There was a bit of an upset when JHW became convinced that someone [Moriarty, I believe] was attempting to enter the cottage. I was able to reassure him without resorting to medication. I held him in my arms until he calmed. Soon after, he fell asleep and napped for two hours…_

Abruptly, Sherlock pushed himself away from the desk. He stood and walked a slow circuit of the room. The skull was on the mantel as usual and he ran two fingers over its well-worn surface. After a few moments, he moved to the neatly organised bookshelves. Here were all of John’s published books. In English, French, German, Dutch, Italian, even Chinese, and more.  
Sherlock felt a warm sense of pride, not over his own accomplishments, but in what John had achieved in recording their adventures. It was all within the pages of these books.

His fingers ran along the spines of the books, stopping at the final volume: HOLMES AND WATSON: ONE FIXED POINT.

It was only in this book that John went beyond the cases, the frankly absurd adventures, and told the story of their life together. Their love.

Sherlock almost removed the book from the shelf, then pulled his hand back and chastised himself over the impulse. It would do no good at the moment to allow himself to indulge in the sentimentality.

He moved on, pausing once more in front of the place where their wedding photograph hung on the wall. John was beaming at him.

Sherlock drew in a breath, ignoring the fact that it was a broken, fragile inhalation, and returned to the desk. He swallowed the rest of the whisky in one gulp. Time to finish today’s entry.

_…at 16:17 JHW awoke from his nap and---_

His fingers paused, just briefly, then, almost brutally began to type again.

_…when he awoke, John did not know me. For the first time, he did not recognise me. I was a stranger to him…_

Sherlock paused again, blinking. He tried to move beyond the pain in his chest, the dreadful ache that had started when those so-familiar eyes looked at him and did not light up. Only emptiness looked back at him. Emptiness and stark fear. John was afraid of him.

Sherlock swallowed hard against the emotion threatening to break free.

_…after four minutes and twenty-seven seconds his gaze cleared a bit and John knew me again. I made tea and we sat on the sofa and I told him one more time about the case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra. He got to be amazed by me all over again. Dinner was a piece of salmon, chips, and a lemon tart._

_JHW watched as I cleaned the kitchen and answered a few emails. At 20:47 I washed him and helped him into his pyjamas. He was in bed at 21:05 and asleep almost immediately._

Sherlock typed his initials as the end of the report as always and turned the tablet off.

It took him only a few minutes to check that everything in the cottage was closed and locked. He left the electric fire on, because the wind was still howling and the temperature outside falling. Any nostalgia for the old wood burner was long gone. He switched the lights off, but left one small lamp glowing, in case they had to get up in the night. Finally, he lowered the volume of the music until it was a mere whisper of sound.

At last, he went into the bedroom, shed his dressing gown, and carefully slid into the bed. Gently, with an unaccustomed wariness, Sherlock wrapped himself around John.

As he settled, John stirred and then his eyes opened just a little. Sherlock stayed very still. After a moment, the hint of a smile touched John’s lips. “Sherlock,” he whispered. And then his eyes closed again and he slept.

Sherlock relaxed against the pillow and pulled John even closer.

Outside, the storm was still raging in the blackness.

In their bedroom, with his husband safe in his arms, Sherlock ignored the wind and snow and the darkness just beyond their window and just listened to the sound of John snuffling in his sleep.

At some point, Sherlock closed his eyes and slept as well.

##

The past beats inside me like  
a second heart.

-John Banville


End file.
